Eleventh Hour
by swaggedoutkidd
Summary: When his sister Rue is Reaped, Thresh Volunteered for the 74th Hunger Games. He meets Katniss, the Girl on Fire, who Volunteered to protect her sister too. Together, they vow to protect Rue from the Careers and from the snares of the Games Masters. Soon their friendship becomes more than just a pact. Will Rue win the Games? Or will the Careers stop them-and their love?
1. Prologue

I ran for my life across that dry, grass-choked field, hoping that the sound of my rapidly drumming heart would not cease in my ears.

Even if he was a Career, I was confident in the tall grass. We grew plenty of it back home to fill the stomachs of Panem—the land in which we lived, which was forged together over a century ago by an apocalyptic war. Running came quite naturally to me. Despite my poor diet growing up, I towered over most people and my long legs set their own speed, synchronized with my breath, my pumping arms, and my beating heart.

Cato did not care to stop my legs. The blond Career boy from District Two wanted to stop my heart. He did not know that I had run from foes fiercer than he. Cato was fueled in his chase by anger, revenge, and pride. He would tire eventually, and when he did, he would make mistakes.

I heard his sword slicing through the air behind me. His first mistake: Throwing the weapon from so far away.

Within the second before the sword would have impaled me, my legs steered my body to the left. The sword struck fast into a tree at the edge of the line of woods established for our Arena.

In the second before Cato spotted his error and gasped in shock, I found a rock the size of a Seeding child back home. I bent down, lifted it in both arms, and tossed it high into the air with a grunt.

In the seconds it took Cato to run to the weapon and retrieve it from its holding place, I pulled myself into the tree's upper branches. Although I lacked the grace of my late little sister, I managed to wrap my legs around a sturdy branch, caught the rock as it descended, and waited. The grief I felt from thinking about her would soon be Cato's.

Cato was focused on the spear. His second mistake: Ignoring the absence of his enemy.

I hurled the rock at his head. It missed by a few inches but struck his left shoulder with a nauseating crunch and bounced off. Yet the impact was made and under that impact, Cato collapsed to the ground. To his credit, he did not utter a sound from pain.

I dropped from the tree, retrieved my rock, and studied my blond adversary. His left side, including the shoulder, was devastated by the force of the rock. I could see his shoulder bone sticking through his torn and bloody vest. Yet he stubbornly crawled toward his sword.

I had to hand it to him: To throw a sword with such accuracy required significant skill.

When he realized I loomed over him, his bland, anguished face turned furious. "You killed Clove! I'll make you pay, you District Eleven scum!"

I introduced my boot to his teeth. His blood stained my boots and his face. Cato, to his credit, did not cry out, but lashed out with his left leg in an effort to topple me. I stumbled but did not fall, and in retaliation, I slammed my rock on both of his kneecaps, crippling him.

Cato's body jerked and his face contorted in pain I could not imagine. But he did not cry out, grunt, or even whimper from his bloody, cracked lips.

I wanted more from him.

If I knew anything of the sadistic audiences that watched, they craved more.

Rue deserved more.

Several more times I crashed that rock against his feeble legs, until they were a mass of blood, shattered bones, and shredded cloth from the knees down. I had not killed him, but Cato would never run down another human again at least. He seemed resilient in his willingness to endure pain, so I raised the rock again, ready to deliver the lethal final strike. He began to laugh.

"You don't deserve to kill me," Cato taunted. He spat out a few dislocated teeth in a glob of bright red blood and continued without his words being hindered. "I've spent my entire life preparing for this. From my mother's womb, I was trained to be a pawn of the Capitol. I don't deserve to die at your hand. I will not die this way!"

"You ought ask for pity."

"No," he whimpered finally, "I ask for justice."

I detested his pleading, as much as I yearned for it. Clove had said that Rue begged for her life and bragged about slaughtering my little sister. The blond beast of a human at my feet had slaughtered at least six other Tributes. I had seen his murderous actions with my own eyes. Even if he had not slain my sister himself, he and men like him were the reason we were in the Games.

He knew nothing of justice.

But I understood mercy.

I tossed the rock into the distance with one hand. "You should live," I said with a glance at his useless legs. "You have Sponsors. They will send medicines to restore you." I turned to walk away and suddenly realized that I heard nothing. I stood at the edge of the forest, but there were no bird songs and no breezes rushing past my ears. Rue had told me that when the birds fell silent in the fields and in the forest, she always knew danger was near.

Silence did not cause me to run. The ominous snapping of twigs caused me to run.

I had gone only fifty yards at most when I afforded myself a backward glance. Their glittering eyes stared at me from the edge of the forest in shades of blue, green, gold, hazel, and grey. They emerged from the protective shadows with the pace of a hunter who knows the quarry is caught and the hunt finished. Growling, salivating, wolf-like mutations with brown, black, and blond coats; I had seen real wolves without their distinctive furs many a time while on watch over our pastures.

These were unnatural, and so frightened me more than the natural ones. Clearly the Games Master had decided we were t0o slow in killing each other. I had known this to happen in years past, whether by an unnatural flood or a cataclysmic thunderstorm. The Games were never slow to finish off reluctant, merciful Tributes.

Cato called to me as the pack of twenty emerged from the woods. "Eleven! Come back! Please, come back! Don't leave me to die!"

I glanced back again as I ran desperately. The pack flanked him on both sides. At the first of his anguished screams, I set my eyes forward and increased my pace toward the Cornucopia. Cato's screams as the mutts ripped him apart filled the forest.

He should have known better. His third mistake: Being crippled and calling for help when surrounded by unfriendly mutations.


	2. Chapter 1

**_One Month Earlier_**

I found a cricket on the morning of the Reaping, and I thought it was a good luck sign.

In District 11, there is no shortage of crickets or butterflies or any other animal. My younger sister, however, had gathered an abundance of each. Rue had collected a memento for each Reaping our family was blessed to avoid for as long as she had been alive. There were three butterflies, long dead in between sheets of precious parchment; two frogs still swimming in a pond behind our hovel; a rabbit that had provided its babies for our meat during the winter; two turtles that lived with the frogs; a songbird that returned every year to our garden; and two fish that swam within the pond.

There were eleven mementoes in all. Rue had turned twelve just two weeks before the Reaping.

I cradled the cricket in my palms, eager to bring it alive to my sister. For a teenager in District 11, I was unusually tall, muscular, and broad-shouldered. Boys were always drafted to carry the heaviest loads of goods to market and to the trains that carried our harvests throughout Panem. I was as strong as three boys put together, almost as strong as a grown man. At a young age, I was taught to be careful with delicate things. When it came to Rue, everything was delicate.

"What are you doing, Ox Boy?" a voice growled above and behind me.

I stood up but I already knew who I would find myself facing. One of the Whips, Kronon, leaned over me. I knew it was him from the smug sound of his voice. I concealed the cricket in one of my hands and faced him. "I was Harvesting, Kronon. It's what we're supposed to do."

Kronon sneered. It was an unpleasant sight, with his yellowed and chipped teeth, his leathery skin, his watery gray eyes made a sight uglier by the creasing of his face, and the musty smell of his breath. If confronted by a gang of thugs, Kronon could have put them to flight just by smiling.

"Don't get smart on me, Ox Boy. Just because they've let you people read books doesn't mean you've got the minds to understand what you've read."

I maintained my usual flat glare. Panem—a confederation of the twelve Districts held together by the might of the Capitol, like a spider holds together her web—did not declare education very valuable for young people in District 11. Actually, it was the Capitol's choice because Panem was not a democracy. It was run by a single, hereditary president from the Capitol and there the decision had been made over a century ago that the children of District 11 would be educated to be farmers.

Each District contributed something to the well-being of the Capitol and that was our District's duty: to farm. And to keep the farmers of District 11 in line, the Capitol was kind enough to give us Whips. No Fieldhand, adult or child, was foolish enough to steal while the Whips walked the rows. With their namesake weapons, I had seen Whips strip the skin off the backs of hearty, grown men. They were gluttons for torture, as long as it was not their own.

Yet, there I was, hoping to gather some berries for our morning porridge. "Perhaps that was why I came to Harvest. I was unable to understand the signs."

Kronon was neither the friendliest nor most aggressive Whip. None of the Whips were particularly clean or particularly dirty. The one distinctive physical attribute he possessed was the natural streak of burgundy in his long auburn hair. His one personality defect was his unreliable nature. Because he was neither hot nor cold, there was no telling how to turn his handles and get his kindness to flow.

He pushed me to the ground. Apparently it was a cold day.

"Today is the Day of Reaping, Thresh. Only adult Fieldhands are permitted here, to do their work before dawn. Everyone else is preparing for Reaping. Why aren't you?"

"I'll be seventeen harvests this year. The next Reaping will be my last."

"What if you're Reaped this year?"

"Then there will be plenty of Tesserae to be had."

"How many Tesserae have you accumulated this year, Thresh?"

"Only ten."

Tesserae permitted poorer potential Tributes, such as my friend Stawk and me, to receive extra food and other supplies for our families. For each year after our twelfth when we were first eligible for Reaping, a teenager's name went into the Drawing an additional time. To receive Tesserae, Stawk and I went to the Hall of Justice after every Reaping and signed up ourselves for additional drawings. Our names went in the place of wealthier children, such as the Mayor's litter of ten children and Kronon's younger brother, and we received an extra portion of food each month for our families. It was the only source of income for most people under eighteen in District 11; young Fieldhands and Callers were not employed.

Tesserae were hard to obtain in District 11 because many older boys and girls signed up. But they replenished every year, as the two Tributes usually had the most Tesserae, and District 11 tributes usually died. In the past 74 years of Hunger Games, there had been only two exceptions: a woman named Seeder from the 54th Hunger Games and a man named Chaff from the 60th Hunger Games. Only District 12 had a smaller pool of victors.

Kronon tsked unsympathetically and shook his head in mock of compassion. "I know it's hard times, Thresh, but when you're my age, you consider yourself fortunate to live without talk of Tesserae and Reapings chilling you in your warm bed."

He helped me to my feet, but I decided to chill him before I left his presence. "Thank you for the push, Kronon. I must be on my way home." I dusted off my raggedy Fieldhand clothes: a pair of drawstring cotton pants to creep all manner of insects from my long legs; heavy leather boots to tread even in mud; a heavy cotton vest; and a light cotton shirt to keep my torso cool.

As I started to walk off, I stopped and turned around, feigning as though I had remembered something. "By the by, Kronon, I heard that Lunda is pregnant?"

He laughed heartily. "Thresh, sometimes you are awfully void of sense! My wife shall be due any hour now. It's already been months since the quickening. From the size of her belly, the midwife tells us to expect twins."

"Well, I suppose that is fortunate."

"Yes, twins are a blessing, but…"

"No, not that," I concentrated to look as though something had occurred to me just at that moment, although I had known Kronon and his wife were expecting for months. "If they are born shortly after the Reaping Day, they'll be exempt from the Games an extra year." I tossed off a salute to Kronon as the Whips unshaved face drained of all color.

As I walked off celebrating my triumph, I suddenly realized my hands were fists at my side and remembered my gift to Rue. I opened my hands and stared in shock at the brown, green, and black stain in one palm.

I had killed my good luck charm, and on the day of my sister's first Reaping.


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: So I really like this story idea because I always wanted to write a first person perspective story, especially for the Hunger Games. But this story is really slow to gain reviews or readers. If you read this chapter, please review or follow. I'm sorry for the long chapter.**

* * *

"When I was a little girl," my Nana said as I crept stealthily into her hovel a handful of minutes later, "my Nana had a saying: The one cracked by the whip stands too tall, but the one who cracks the whip cannot stand at all." She turned her cataract-afflicted gaze upon me. "Do you know what that means, Little Thresh?"

Nana was nearing her 70th year of life, had the stoop of a woman who had carried heavy loads on her back her entire life, and stood more than a foot below my gaze when she stood upright. Yet Nana continued to call me "Little Thresh" in honor of the uncle for whom I had been named. If not for my uncle's sacrifice, I would probably not be alive to approach my seventeenth birthday.

I inhaled deeply the aroma of Nana's porridge with freshly churned butter. It was the staple way we broke fasting in the hovel. "Yes, Nana, I do. I means that the Whips are insignificant little men."

"Or that you, Little Thresh, stand too tall over them."

"I stand too tall over everyone, Nana."

Nana aimed her wooden stirring spoon at me as though it were a more lethal weapon. She had taught my sister Rue and I think with more cunning than the District 11 schools offered. But Nana had a low tolerance level for our wit when we used it against her.

"You know what the saying means, little one. It's a condemnation against being too prideful or too corrupt. Don't sass me."

"I'm sorry, Nana. The porridge smells wonderful."

She smiled at my attempt to restore peace. "It would be tastier with a fresh slaughtered hog." Nana sighed and stirred the porridge with a dollop of cream. "You and Rue both need hearty meals for…today." Nana silently began to ladle porridge into the cup-like bowls from which we ate every meal. She tried to suppress it, but I caught her wiping away a tear.

The Reaping was a forbidden topic in our household. In the same year that a ton of freshly harvested nuts had crushed her husband to death, my mother was Reaped. My uncle, for whom I was named, Volunteered in her place. Nana only had two children, as two others had died in infancy. My uncle Thresh was a week shy of his seventeenth birthday, and my mother was fourteen.

District 11 only had two victors in 73 years of Hunger Games: Chaff and Seeder.

We had enough tragedy without discussing the Games. Shortly after my uncle had Volunteered, the Gamemaker instituted a new rule: Only Volunteers of the same gender could replace each other.

"Is Rue ready?" I asked to distract her. "They'll be Gathering any moment now."

Nana frowned. We shared that expression of worry and our deep brown eyes. Rue had her beautiful caramel skin. "Get Rue. You two _will_ eat before you go to the Reaping."

I strode to the back of our hovel, a walk of about four steps. There were only three rooms: the kitchen, my room, and the room Rue shared with Nana. Someday I would have my own hovel with a wife and children of my own. Rue would live here when Nana died.

That was the sort of reality we faced in District 11, if we survived six years of Reapings.

Rue was not in her room, of course. She rarely was. I found her in the back of the hovel in a tree overlooking the pond that connected our hovel to our neighbors'. My little sister looked like a younger version of Nana, but her abundant curly hair was brown rather than gray. Rue had inherited our mother's pretty button nose but we never told her. Our mother died to give her life. Rue was understandably sensitive about it.

She cradled a frog in her small hands and sang a lullaby to it. As I approached the tree, Rue smiled at me. I recognized the lullaby as one Nana had sung to Rue when she was just a baby.

When my sister wanted to, she could vanish up the tree or anywhere else for days at a time. Neither of us wanted to hide from the other on the day of Rue's first Reaping. "Thresh, I thought you would be late!"

"For today? Never. You should come down though. You'll stain your pretty dress."

Rue giggled and jumped down without releasing the frog. "Sorry, Thresh, I had to come for some good luck."

Her dress was pretty. Nana had stitched it herself and dyed it from hundreds of dying lilacs. Because our grandmother's Reaping dress and our mother's Reaping dress had not been preserved, Nana had spent most of Rue's life putting the dress together. It was elegant but simple, but would only be remembered fondly if Rue returned to our hovel alive.

"Do you really need more good luck?" I laughed.

We started the short trek back into the hovel. "I'm scared, Thresh. What if I get Reaped? What if I have to fight?"

"You can hide Rue, instead of fighting. You can run and not have to kill."

My sister set the frog she cradled in her hands into the pond. "They can find me, Thresh. They can kill me."

"No, they won't. Remember that girl from District Four a few years ago? She hid in a cave and never had to kill anyone."

"They were in the mountains that year, Thresh. There's always somewhere to hide in the mountains. But what about the desert? Or what if it's in the ocean? Thresh, I can't swim."

Each year, the Head Gamemaker surprised the people of Panem and its Tributes with a different setting for the Games. It was never the same location each year, and it was rare to see the same location used twice within a decade. Rue could easily find herself without the trees, tall wheat, or hills offered by District 11.

"Don't worry, Rue. I won't let them get you. Come on, Nana has porridge waiting for us."

* * *

Gatherers walked the streets when Rue and I left Nana. Capitol-employed and dispatched men, they were more aggressive than the Peacekeepers who patrolled the streets. They dressed in cobalt blue uniforms with black goggles over their eyes, and went from hovel to hovel wielding Shock Sticks. When the Reaping came, they were sent to the Districts in small numbers and allowed to use excessive force. Gatherers were not patient or sympathetic men. Their children would never compete in the Games.

I saw one man yelling at the Gatherers in front of his hovel. His wife and three sons huddled behind him. A boy no older than fourteen hid in the man's arms; he was only head and shoulders taller than Rue, a dwarf version of his father. While the men yelled, the Gatherers charged their Shock Sticks. I forced Rue to turn her head when they jabbed the Sticks in the man's stomach and he retched violently.

He was laid on the ground, convulsing and vomiting, when the Gatherers Shocked his sons and wife, then dragged all four paralyzed boys to the Reaping.

The Hall of Justice was the center of life in District 11. It occupied one end of the main dirt road; our market stood at the opposite end of the road. The railway stretched along the horizon, binding the District with its sleek silver surface. We shopped at the market; shipped our products on the railway; and received what little justice there was at the Hall of Justice.

Its tall, sanded columns were from some of the strongest trees ever to grow in the District. The wide porch shaded all who came within its halls. And the graceful construction gave District 11 a sense of importance to Panem that we earnestly lacked.

All the potential Tributes stood at the front of the crowd, directly in front of a massive stage erected just for today. Dark blue curtains covered the back of the stage, which was empty of any decoration or people. A giant digital timer projected onto the curtains to countdown the last minute before the Reaping. It was still early in the morning but spotlights were focused on the stage. From there, a broadcast would be recorded then projected across Panem to show the Reaping of District 11.

Older siblings, parents, and even grandparents congregated at the back of the town square. The air was thick with collective dread. Whoever was Reaped was certain to die, and in a District as interdependent as ours, that death would be felt everywhere. A few defiant mothers bravely held their children close under the watchful eyes of Gatherers.

"I'm nervous, Thresh," Rue confided. She slipped her small, delicate hand around mine. I led her to the area just in front of the stage, as a shepherd led a lamb to slaughter. "Even if I don't get Reaped, I have friends who will. Someone always has to be Reaped."

At my first Reaping, a strapping older boy—almost a man at eighteen—was Reaped. It was a younger boy, twelve, at the Reaping the following year. I knew Larik, the boy who went to the Games my third year of Reaping, because our hovels sat on the same pond. He bragged he would be the next to last to die. I watched Tributes from Districts 1 and 2 slaughter him last year at the opening Bloodbath.

"If it is a friend of yours, Rue, then you ought to wish them a safe journey there and a swift death in the Arena," I spat.

"What about their families? Will you tell their parents that you wished a swift death for their son or daughter?"

I recoiled at my sister's indignant words. "I would rather tell them the terrible truth than a lovely lie."

Rue pinned me with her warm brown eyes. "I worry that you'll get Reaped, Thresh, more than I worry about me."

Before I could ask her why, a drumroll played. A man's booming bass of a voice came through the speakers on either side of the stage. The digital clock vanished. "Ladies and gentlemen of District 11, I present your Master of Ceremony: the handsome, the charming, the incomparable Danting Fraks!"

The owner of the booming voice walked onto a silent stage. He was dark-skinned like almost everyone in District 11 but the rest of his appearance said he lived in and was raised in the Capitol. His jet black hair was distinguished by two lightning-bolt shaped streaks of white hair on the sides. Danting's formerly slim body had given way to a paunch some time ago, but that paunch had diminished since last year's Reaping. His shimmering silver shirt and sparkling duotoned pants were out of place in our District.

Danting was out of place, and the frightened look of his eyes said so. He just assumed a cheerful-looking smile.

"Good morning everyone! Welcome to the Reaping of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!" No one responded. Danting was the only one smiling in a crowd of at least 1500 people. "It is a great honor, and even a pleasure to be Reaped for the Hunger Games. As you know, the Hunger Games began when Panem was young…."

I rolled my eyes, glad that no Gatherer or Peacekeeper saw. Before every Hunger Games, Danting delivered a brief history of Panem and the Games themselves.

Panem had once been three neighboring nations, stretching from one ocean to the other, and stacked atop each other like bales of hay. A nuclear holocaust had devastated central government and life in all three countries, but the survivors banded together. Separated by language and culture, they were united in purpose and created the thirteen Districts of Panem. That name must have meant something with purpose and integrity.

"And then the Districts foolishly rebelled," Danting said. "District Thirteen was firebombed, and to this day, no life survives there. To punish the Districts for their rebellion, the Capitol that united Panem instituted the Hunger Games. Each year, two Tributes from each District—one male, one female for a total of twenty-four—will fight each other. The winner of each Hunger Games will be recognized as the Victor and celebrated throughout Panem. The losers…die.

"With that, I think it is time to Reap this year's Tributes!" Two huge glass globes filled with slips of paper rose from beneath the stage on glass supports. One bowl was colored pink, and the other colored dark blue. "Ladies, first."

In the seconds that Danting reached into the pink bowl and retrieved a slip of paper, I imagined life without the Hunger Games. I imagined I would be a wealthy man. Nana would have a better place to live. Rue would have a better education. What had our ancestors fought for decades ago that was worth the punishment of the Hunger Games?

"Rue Varon!"

The announcement of my sister's named startled me from my daydream. Surely it was some neighbor of ours calling Rue's name? Or was it one of the Peacekeepers?

Rue's fragile hand released my strong one. I watched her stroll through the crowd of children and emerge on the other side. She was climbing the stairs toward the stage. I glanced up at Danting, and saw a slip of paper in his hand. All around me, people were giving Rue a salute of their first three fingers kissed to their lips.

It was the salute we gave to someone preparing for a long journey, in case he or she died far from home.

"NO! RUE!" I lunged forward, but the Peacekeepers restrained me.

Rue kept her chin held high. Her shoulders were squared as she took her place before the pink glass globe, and her eyes focused straight ahead. She was beautiful in her purple dress, but I knew Rue. She was terrified. "RUE! RUE!"

I wrestled the Peacekeepers but they were fully-grown men and had Shock Sticks. Rue's life was flashing before my eyes: The night she was born, when Nana told me I had gained a sister and lost a mother; the first butterfly she ever caught; when she lost her first tooth and cried at the sight of her own blood; when she stood on the stage proudly in her purple dress. She wasn't ready for the Arena. She was only twelve, and there were Tributes who spent their entire lives training for the Hunger Games.

How could I watch my sister die in some far away Arena while I stood comfortably in front of the Hall of Justice?

"I Volunteer!"

Rue's gaze shifted from the distance to where I stood. I shoved the Peacekeepers aside. Danting's eyes, golden in the sunlight overhead, focused on me. I bellowed again, "I Volunteer!"


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Big shout-outs to ' for the latest review, and to SandyXX, Tisha110802, and ' for following this story. Please keep the reviews coming and let me know if I write anything that's too OOC for Thresh (like him developing wings or something). I'm reading The Hunger Games again to make this story as close to parallel as possible. Rue and Thresh are going to show off some really cool abilities, and I hope you stick around for the chapters to come.**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

The guards stepped back from their new Volunteer. I wiped off my clothes, as though their hands had sullied the sanctity of my fabric. My neighbors and friends around me gazed at me as though my dark skin had spontaneously erupted in flames. They stepped back.

In District 11, it was pertinent to read emotions from the look in someone's eyes. Only the very young expressed their feelings by crying, but Gatherers, Peacekeepers, and Whips could easily beat those emotions into suppression. When we wanted to cry, there was an expression; when we wanted to be happy, there was an expression of our eyes. My neighbors and friends saluted me as they had saluted Rue. But I elicited a greater sadness from their eyes. Rue was a victim of the Games.

I was a martyr.

As I slowly but confidently approached the stage, I shivered. The day was not cold. I was frightened by the looks in the eyes of my people and by the look in the eyes of my sister. Rue glared at me—she actually _glared_, which I thought impossible for my sweet little sister—as if the stony look in her sweet face could root me to the spot where I stood. That look said, _'You may be my big brother, but I'll kill you if I have to.'_

That was the part that worried me. Would my little sister truly kill me just to guarantee she won the Games?

I took one hesitant step, followed by a second, and a third. I was now on the stage facing Danting and Rue. My timidity had so immobilized my body that my movements had become mechanical. I turned, just as hesitantly, and gazed upon a turbulent sea of emotional eyes belonging to neighbors and friends.

Was I supposed to say something to them? Give an account for my actions? Offer hope when I had none?

Danting approached me with a microphone the size of my index finger. I immediately thought to warn him that a boy of my size and strength was still unskilled with delicate things. My tongue was suddenly clumsy in my mouth. Danting was probably accustomed to these situations and initiated the conversation.

"Well, this is an unexpected twist! A Volunteer from District 11 hasn't happened in thirty years! Would you kindly tell us your name, young man?"

I swallowed back my fear. All of Panem's eyes would soon be upon me, as the Reapings were recorded and televised in a staggered telecast later in the evening. Each District would be subjected again to the Reaping of its Tributes and to the Reaping of other Tributes, as a reminder of the debt we owed the Capitol.

Nana's eyes were likely already upon me at that moment. When I spoke, I needed to be confident, the way she expected. "Thresh. My name is Thresh Varon."

Danting's eyes cut from me to Rue and back to me. "Varon? Would you happen to be related to our other Tribute?"

I focused my gaze upon the face of some random man at the back of the crowd. "Yes, Rue is my sister."

"Well, well, our twist becomes more twisted!" Danting's Capitol dialect practically stabbed my ears when he pitched his voice. No one in District 11, except the Mayor and Danting, spoke in that affected manner. Usually I stood far enough away to ignore the dialect, but on the stage, there was no way to avoid it. "I suppose there is some unresolved sibling rivalry you two intend to settle in the Arena, eh?" Danting chuckled.

To Rue's credit, she said nothing in response. To my credit, I didn't lash out at Danting. I reached across him, grabbed Rue around her slim shoulders, and pulled her to my side. Danting's mocking laughter ceased instantly.

"I suppose our Tributes are closer than they seemed after all!" I wanted to bring my fist closer to Danting's sculpted jaw. It must have cost him twice what an adult Fieldhand earned each Harvest, and Peacekeepers would have punished with merciless swiftness any rebellious Tribute. When Danting realized he would get nothing else from us, he beamed at the crowd with pearly white teeth. "Let's give a round of applause to our District 11 Tributes!"

No one clapped. It was one small act of rebellion, despite the threatening presence of dozens of Peacekeepers and Gatherers. No one even moved, except one small boy at the back of the crowd, who took off running toward the part of the District where my grandmother's hovel stood firm. I knew that boy and I knew his nature.

* * *

Danting introduced the mayor shortly after. A cowardly looking man with whitened hair styled in a fashionable Capitol manner, the Mayor was no bigger than a wisp compared to me. He read the lengthy Treaty of Treason aloud. It was the document signed by all Twelve District Leaders 75 years ago, just before the first Hunger Gamers were instituted to punish the rebellious Districts. Several of their children were in the first Reaping.

For reasons I can't explain, I hated the mayor more than ever when he mounted the stage that day. He was an insipid man but he dressed in the latest Capitol fashions and treated the people of District 11 kindly. No one ever said anything bad about the Mayor. His children were another matter.

The Capitol guaranteed his children would never compete in the Games, so the Mayor and his wife and spawned eight children. District 11 was already overpopulated with nine thousand people, and worse still, their children were well-fed nuisances who performed no work other than beautifying the District with their clothes and makeup. His children were loathsome, always trying badly to imitate the Capitol dialect and bragging about their clothes.

After he read the Treaty of Treason and renewed our obligation to the Capitol, Rue and I were escorted into the Hall of Justice. Every other year, a Tribute in one of the Districts attempted to flee. The Capitol had refined its detainment methods over time. Peacemakers flanked Rue and I in a tight square formation. Gatherers were nearby to suppress any rebellious actions with their Shock Sticks.

I knew I could take on the Peacemakers. But where would that leave Rue if the Gatherers "accidentally" killed me or beat my fighting spirit from me?

We were separated from each other, Rue and I, at the top of a colossal flight of stairs flowing through the Hall of Justice like a waterfall. The Peacekeepers could not budge me until I watched her disappear behind a heavy wooden door with finely crafted gold handles. I yielded then and they locked me inside the chamber.

Cameras studied me from every corner of the luxurious room in which the Peacekeepers had detained me. I was likely being monitored by all of District 11 and recorded for the rest of Panem. Rue and I were allowed visitors and our visits would be telecast for all to see. Nana criticized those telecasts because they maximized sympathy for the Tributes.

The cameras would also transmit the fine, soft cushioned chairs with gracefully carved wooden arms, legs, and backs. I ran my fingertip along the contours of the chairs. No woodcarver I knew in our District could have produced such wonderful craftsmanship.

In previous Hunger Games, I had watched Tributes from poor Districts marvel at the exquisite furniture and the delicate treats offered by the Capitol. Reaping allowed Tributes to glimpse at the wonder of the Capitol. For a moment, I considered living in the Capitol. Then my first visitor walked through the door.

The Capitol couldn't have picked one better for their needs from their filthy muttations. Nana stood in the doorway. "Thresh, you fool of a boy!" she spat by way of greeting. "What did you hope to accomplish as a Volunteer?"

I noticed that she had troubled herself to wear her best-looking dress. It was homespun cotton, as old as Rue was young, but dyed golden from dozens of goldenrod clusters. Her hair was combed back from her light brown face, and her eyes shone with tears waiting to be shed. "They Reaped Rue, Nana," I said defensively.

"And so you thought to be like your uncle and save your sister?"

I nodded solemnly.

Even without handcuffs to restrain me, Nana's gaze was all the restraint I needed: unyielding, cold, and cutting like sharp metal. "I told your foolish mother to name you after your father. Oak is not an unwise name. Of course, that foolish man was gone already, laboring in the orange fields where men of his height were scarce. Still, Oak had good reasons to work the orange fields, but Marithe wouldn't listen to me. She wanted to name you after a 'real hero,' she said. God only knows why she wanted your sister so named."

Nana sighed and even her sighs were full of weariness. "Little Thresh, I have buried a husband before my children left my hovel. I buried a son before I was old. I lost a son-by-marriage to the Capitol."

"What?" Rue and I had lived our lives in the belief that our father had found employ in the orange groves in the far southern part of District 11. Nana never explained why he returned for us after Mother's death. I lived quietly with vague memories of his large hands lifting me up and his broad, proud smile but confident he had died. Now Nana's words carried the implication that he was not.

"Men in this family have suffered too much, too long," Nana continued, ignoring my exclamation. "I want Rue to come back. Even if she doesn't, you _must_. Do you hear me?"

Peacekeepers returned through the door and grabbed Nana's arms. She rose calmly in response. "Please, more time with my grandmother," I said.

"Her visit is over," one of them growled.

Nana did not resist, but she did not make their work easy. "Promise me you'll return, even if Rue does not."

I couldn't believe what Nana asked of me. She wanted me to live, even if it meant the sacrifice of her one granddaughter. I wanted to say no, but as the Peacekeepers dragged her toward the door, Nana's eyes cut me again. She was elderly and weary in that moment. Her cruel life had sapped her of all vigor. If I said no, who was to guarantee her another day of life?

"I promise I'll return, Nana." Nana smiled, and the door between us closed. I was glad for that. She could not see my heart breaking in my eyes.


	5. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Thanks to HufflePuff96 for the last following, and to ' and koryandrs for the latest reviews. I'm glad you guys enjoyed the last chapter so thoroughly because it lets me know I'm doing well at building the suspense for the story. I'm trying to get to the action of the Arena as quickly as possible. But I will say that the next chapter, when Thresh and Rue are introduced to the capitol, will have an interesting concept for their costumes. **

**"Fieldancing" is based on the Brazilian martial art of capoeira. I started studying capoeira this summer and I'm still taking classes in it, so I'm not much of an expert. Fieldancing, for future reference, has five classes: New (beginner level); Fluid; Skilled; Master; and Perfect. Capoeira actually began as martial art form practiced discreetly by field slaves, just like I describe for Fieldancing. **

**Please continue to review and follow!**

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We were Reaped shortly after one p.m. and shuffled to our decorated cells. I only received the one visitor, but Rue must have received many more. Rue was naturally more popular than I was. In the fields, she sang the morning song to start our work, and the evening song to summon us in from work. Our neighbors would have many more kind words to pay to my sister. Peacekeepers did not come to escort us to the train until long after 2:00 p.m.

Either Rue had many more visitors than I or hers were permitted to stay longer. At any rate, she wore a delicate tiara of woven flowers in her hair when we mounted the train and a bright but grieved smile when we boarded the train to the Capitol. She looked like a timid bride. I embraced her before we stepped onto the train, but Rue held back.

"You can't shield me forever, Thresh," Rue warned in her quiet way. Her voice was still immature and childish, but her words were confident.

"I'm doing my best to prove you wrong."

The train was more lavishly decorated than the rooms. Comfortable seats, plush pillows, decorative curtains over the picturesque windows, and they were all decorated with the symbols of the Capitol: an island with a star hovering over it, surrounded by the twelve symbols of the Districts on a gold ring. I recognized only a few of the symbols: a crab for District 4; a sheaf of wheat for District 11; and a lump of coal for District 12.

"If you stare hard enough and long enough at it, you'll see a spider in its nest," a male voice warned. It was one I was proud to recognize.

I turned to its source. Seated at a table in the middle of the room were an older man and older woman. Anyone in my District, from the elderly to the young, would have recognized Chaff and Seeder, the only two District 11 victors in the history of the Hunger Games.

Chaff reclined in his obviously very comfortable chair. He was a lean man with gray sprinkled in his cropped black hair. Despite his elite status in our District, Chaff's face looked exhausted with deep circles under his hard brown eyes. There weren't many drug users in District 11 because so few people could afford it, but there were enough to recognize someone who had used. A half-empty bottle of wine rested close to his left arm, the only one remaining to Chaff; the other was only a stump, lost in the Games he'd won.

Seeder had a kind, matronly face. My mother was almost of an age with her, but my mother had died while still in her younger years. Like I had heard of my mother, Seeder was a pretty woman. Stress had strained her good looks. Her eyes were kind but her jaw was sharp with the grim set of a lethal warrior.

"I see the spider," Rue said quietly.

"Good, are you now ready to die in the Arena, little one?" Chaff growled.

As though I hoped to shield my sister from the brutality of Chaff's words, I stepped in front of her. I was far from confident of taking on the former Victor. In District 11, I was a sure bet against any boy my age and a few men as well. Against Chaff, I was more certain of death than victory. Despite that, I still said defiantly, "Don't speak to my sister like that."

Chaff chuckled. "Well, they have a gimmick. Perhaps they'll live."

"What's a gimmick?" Rue asked innocently. I wondered at it myself. Even with the more thorough education we had received from Nana, we both were horribly naïve. I was just less willing to admit such before other people.

Fortunately, Seeder spoke. "A gimmick is how you will market yourselves to the sponsors while in the Arena. In order to survive, you will need the support of sponsors. They will send medicine, nourishment, clothes, and perhaps even weapons if they like you. In your case, they may like the two of you a lot. There haven't been two siblings in the Games in my lifetime."

I understood the weight of the words because, while Rue was still a small child, I had watched a boy from District 4 win the Games with a three-pronged weapon, which was a gift from a sponsor. From the moment he first wielded the weapon, it seemed to be an extension of his body. He slew every other Tribute with that weapon, but no other Tribute had ever been so fortunate. I wanted something like that—not his weapon, but my own—with which I hoped to defend me and my sister. If I needed a gimmick to get that weapon, then I would use the gimmick.

"How do we get sponsors?"

"Your stylists can work the two of you into the gimmick," Chaff responded, "but we're here to figure out how long we can keep you alive. We ought to see your skills."

Seeder rested a hand on Chaff's good arm. "No," she said sharply, "they should see the other Tributes first. Let them see what they oppose." I knew, without a doubt, which one was in charge.

She pressed a button on her chair, and a panel on the wall came to life with the Capitol's spider-like logo. A telecaster whose purple hair was parted and curled stiffly in two loops atop her head chatted in the rapid, high-pitched tone of the Capitol. We were just in time to watch the recap of the Reapings across Panem.

Although the Reapings were staggered in sequential order by District number to allow people in every District to watch the Reapings live, I couldn't imagine how it would be possible.

"Today was a grand day for Volunteers," the telecast announced proudly. "In Districts One, Two, Eleven, and Twelve, the Reaping yielded Volunteers today."

While I was accustomed to watching each Reaping as an individual segment of the total event, the enthusiasm of Reaping Volunteers brought about a change in the telecast's format. A short clip of the Reaping of District One played first, putting a tall blond boy and blonde girl on the stage beside their slew of Victors. From District Two, there came an intimidating blond boy and a brown-haired girl with a hateful look in her eyes. They proudly came to the stage as part of the perennial Career Tributes for each Hunger Games.

There were few standouts between: the undersized boy and girl from District Three; the slim, cunning-looking girl from District Four; and the towering blond boy from District Nine. Then I watched as Rue climbed the stage hesitantly, followed by my hasty entrance into the Hunger Games. Of all the Tributes Reaped, I felt we were the most timid-looking, despite the courage I summoned to declare Rue was my sister.

It was the final clip, the one from District 12, which caught my attention and made me ignore all the other Tributes. The boy was insipid-looking, blond, and filled with false courage before the cameras. But the girl had a story: A nervous blonde girl was initially selected as the female Tribute; before she stood on the stage a full heartbeat, a brown-haired, gray-eyed girl offered herself as a Tribute. I'm not sure if the telecaster noticed or even cared, but the two girls had nearly identical cheekbones, noses and foreheads. The older girl—the one who Volunteered—looked to be about my age, while the younger had to be Rue's but looked younger than that.

_'She offered herself in the place of her sister,' _I realized, _'and for a girl from District Twelve, she's not ugly.'_

"Well, it looks like Haymitch has gotten himself a fighter." Chaff laughed obnoxiously. "There's no telling about that blond boy. I remember a blond boy from District Three whose head came off easily in the bloodbath. Blonds don't frighten me much."

Rue blanched slightly at Chaff's memory. Given that we were raised in a world where the violent deaths of people our age were broadcast every year and in which we also expected the possibility of death, I was surprised at my sister's unease. "Could you control your mouth around my sister? Or has the drink loosened your morals as well?"

From the corner of my eyes, I saw Seeder smile with quiet approval of my words. However, Chaff was enraged and lunged at me from his chair with a murderous look in his eyes. His height brought his eyes to the level with mine. "You are but a boy but not so old that I cannot loosen _your_ tongue from its roots," he threatened and punctuated each word with a jab of his index finger into my chest.

I seized his finger with my right hand then swung my body into a cartwheel. Resting my left hand on the ground, I brought both of my feet into contact with Chaff's face. He cried out in pain. I released Chaff's hand, tucked my legs to my chest, and tucked my body between my arms. When I kicked Chaff's legs from underneath him, the drunken Victor fell to the floor with another cry of pain. I slammed my left leg onto his neck, cutting off his air supply and resting on my hands.

"So," he gasped, "you're a Fieldancer?"

"It seems that he is not just a Fieldancer, but a Master Fieldancer," Seeder commented quietly.

"I'm not a Master, just Skilled." Fieldancing began in District 11 around the time of the first rebellion. Rather than practicing openly militaristic tactics during Harvest and planting, Fieldancers developed a form of martial arts that resembled dancing. It never saw action in the Capitol during the war because District 11 was the furthest away from the Capitol. During the rebellion, Fieldancers defeated the Whips and briefly controlled the District.

There were five levels of skill: New; Fluid, which usually required two years of training; Skilled, which usually required four or five years of training; Master, which usually required seven years of training; and Perfect, which was achieved after ten years of training. I had learned it from several elder Perfect Fieldancers since I was old enough for Reaping. At the time, I was merely curious about the art form practiced by Fieldancers and eager to learn.

Now I saw a purpose for what I had acquired.

Seeder's eyes locked on mine. "You've trained well."

"He trains almost every day," Rue answered for me.

I removed my leg from Chaff's throat. "Well," he coughed, "I've seen your abilities. Is there anything your sister is capable of, besides small squeaking sounds?"

Rue glared loathingly at Chaff. I had seen that look on countless occasions. "You'll just have to wait and see," she said.

"Oh ho!" Chaff straightened to his full height and stared at both of us. "You two definitely have energy about you: defiant, purposeful, and proud. You'll need these qualities in the arena. But tell me, Thresh," Chaff's uttering of my name was as sharp as a crack of a Whip in the fields, "can you yet stare into your sister's eyes while the life drains from her by your doing?"

His eyes met mine. Somewhere within those dark depths, Chaff restrained a monster capable of horrible acts. "And pretty, sweet little Rue, do you have the courage to stare into your brother's eyes while you disembowel him?

"If either—or both—of you are hesitant to do such a thing, then I promise you are not ready for these Games. The other Tributes want to win, and winning means they will live. If their determination to live exceeds your readiness to sacrifice each other, then you will both die before the first hour is done. What you are unwilling to do for the other, another Tribute will gladly do and without compassion. Consider that." Chaff turned sharply on his heels and exited the compartment.


	6. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Thanks to new followers IcePhoenix12360, Nightwing509, and clato4ever7, and thanks also to reviews from koryandrs, GillieBeanN, and Nightwing509, here's another installment of Eleventh Hour! I'm finally recovering from bronchitis from the last two weeks, so that plus two jobs, winding down my last semester of college, and applying for grad school have slowed the writing process. **

**FYI: I chose to have the stylist meet Rue and Thresh on the train into the Capitol because that made better sense than meeting the Tributes in the Capitol. I can explain it better in the context of the story. And rather than the guy who played Thresh in the movies, I would cast Trevor Jackson or Daniel Curtis Lee for this role, and keep the same actress who played Rue. They'd just need some serious weight training.**

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**Chapter 5**

"Where should we start? I propose we start with its smell."

"I am not an 'it,' and I do not smell," I said.

The conversation continued as though I had barely breathed, much less spoken. "What a waste of time!" Danting exclaimed. "We've bathed the thing twice already, and it still smells! Let's tame its hair."

"What's wrong with my hair?" Nana had cut my hair only a week ago because it was growing thick and tangled. When it grew that way during Harvest season, I would sweat too much, risking dehydration. In the fields, Whips only gave us two water breaks per Harvest day: one at the beginning of the day and one at the end of the day. Many before me had fainted and died from overexerting themselves, even the strongest of men and women.

"Good idea: He does have too much hair. Let's make him as smooth as a glass!"

Frustrated, I slammed my fist upon the table. Earlier that morning, which was all of four minutes prior, I had waken and come to the main compartment of the speed train, hoping to find breakfast. Despite what the Whips would have called an altercation with Chaff, the dinner with Seeder, Rue, and Danting had been very polite and enjoyable. Seeder had many questions about Rue and I. In turn, she was more reserved when we asked about her life. I had anticipated a breakfast conversation that would fill the gaps left at dinner.

Instead, I had found Danting and a woman with gold skin, coarse yellow-hair in a sphere around her head, and cat-shaped bluish-green eyes talking animatedly. Danting introduced me to the woman before launching into a description of the adjustments I needed to become "presentable."

All I wanted was breakfast. Rue and I had gorged ourselves on roasted pheasant, sauced potatoes, creamy vegetables, and hearty oat rolls served on plates until we were too sleepy to eat another bite. I realized that each bit of our food—from the oats to the pheasant—likely had come from District 11. Enriched with taste and nutrients, it was more than anyone in District 11 could afford. Yet, I looked forward to an even tastier breakfast. Danting was just between me and my food.

"I am not an 'it.' And I do not smell!" I yelled at Danting's comments.

"Only two days on the train, and you've already demonstrated a rebellious streak." I turned to face Chaff, leaning casually on the compartment doorway behind me. He wore a silver-gray shirt and slacks, composed of a material I could not identify. It cost more than five Fieldhands earned in a year because of the dye alone.

I noted his bare feet and inhaled the alcohol drifting off him. "You woke up drunk," I stated.

"I woke up, but I'm far from drunk. A glass of wine is not drunk. Four glasses of wine is not drunk. Yet I am sober than you."

He walked into the compartment and sat at the table. Tucking a napkin into his shiny metallic shirt, Chaff glanced over his shoulder at me and spoke with firmness rather than condescension. "We will be in the Capitol within the hour. Thousands of Panem's wealthiest citizens will watch your entrance by chariot tomorrow night. You will want to look nice, because you want them to like you. If they like you, then they will sponsor you. Sponsors will be the difference between your life and death.

"Now, isn't it time for breakfast?"

I scowled at Chaff. "Last night, you said they would like us because of our gimmick. Now, you want us to look a certain way? You want us to look like…them?" I pointed at Danting and the gold-skinned woman beside him.

"You don't have any friends, do you?" Chaff said to his plate, but his words were aimed at me.

"Friendship is only so useful. I think you said that during the Games you were in."

"My stylist wasn't as skilled as yours." I glimpsed Chaff's smirk at the cat-eyed woman. "Parion is one of the most skilled I've seen in years."

"So I should let them pluck and scrape and mock me?"

"If that's what it takes to make you more attractive, yes."

Parion, the cat-eyed stylist, spoke. "This is my fifth year as a stylist, but it's my first in District 11." Her squeaky voice, higher than the dialect of the Capitol, seemed to fit her golden skin and her yellow hair. "I want to do the best I can with your appearance, but retain your ability to be Thresh."

"Don't you want to get back to styling District One Tributes as quickly as possible?" Districts One and Two were the richest and most important Districts in Panem. They regularly sent victorious Tributes to the Games.

"Assigned though I was to District Eleven, but excited I am too. There are so many possibilities!" Parion grinned earnestly and she flashed her augmented teeth. They had been filed to a curved, pointed tip similar to a dog's teeth.

"I'd rather not have a blue-eyed gold coin dress me."

Chaff shook his head with disappointment. In good humor—or maybe from a lack of understanding—Danting chuckled. After a beat, Parion joined in, too. As cheerful as she seemed, the stylist was probably a dimwit who did not grasp that she was the object of my laughter, rather than a partner in it.

"My boy," Danting said, "you'll soon see that and more inside the Capitol. And Parion has already begun her work as your stylist. You are dismissed to examine your wardrobe for the selection you'll wear for your entrance into the Capitol."

I left the room, resenting Danting's command. I hadn't eaten, which wasn't unfamiliar to me, but the wonderful scent of food coming from the dining compartment had frustrated my stomach. Part of me was glad to leave Parion's presence and put some distance between the Games and me.

Rue and I shared a compartment in one of the train's rear areas, but we hadn't seen each other since last night, just after dinner. When I reached her compartment, I knocked quietly on her door. It was an adjustment, because in Nana's hovel, there were no doors. There was a boundary of respect between the inner space of the women in my family and me, and we did not cross into each other's spaces without consent.

The sliding door opened and revealed my younger sister jumping happily atop the plush bed in her room. Her curly hair bounced in tune to the springing of her feet, and Rue's shrieks and giggles accompanied the music of her bouncing. "Thresh! Look at this bed! Look at this room!" She collapsed, breathlessly sprawled on the bed. "Can you believe it? It's all mine!"

Back home, she had nothing of her own, except me and Nana. I smiled at my sister's childish, innocent behavior. "I have a room and a bed of my own as well, Rue."

"You've _always _had your own room, Thresh. You're a boy."

"I've noticed." I scratched my face, which had not yet grown the hair that marked my passage into manhood. "I came to tell you, we'll be in the Capitol soon, Rue. They want us to wear something nice, to make a good impression on the rich people there."

Rue's face fell. "I don't have any clothes, Thresh. I only brought with me what I wore to the Reaping."

"Check your closet," I said, hoping that the golden stylist had considered my sister too.

Rue eagerly went to the door of a small closet tucked into the wall. "Clothes!" she exclaimed, jumping up and down happily. "I have so many clothes now, Thresh! What should I wear?"

"I'm not certain. Clothing was never my area of knowledge. Don't you have a stylist?"

"A what?" Rue turned to me, perplexed.

I nodded in the direction of the dining compartment. "There's a stylist with Danting in the dining compartment. Maybe she is your stylist, too."

"I'd like to have the same stylist as you, Thresh. Maybe that's why Tributes in the past always matched."

As if summoned by our mention of her, Parion walked into the hallway and flashed her augmented teeth. "We'll be in the Capitol within minutes. We've already passed through the tunnels. The outfits I've picked for you to wear into the Capitol are the first ones in your closets. So run along, get dressed, no delay!"

I went to my room and did as Parion instructed. The first outfit I found within my closet was made of soft, animal hide and was the color of an acorn. The top was snug, but loose enough for me to move easily. My pants were warm but allowed limited movement. While I pulled on my matching boots, the train slowed down.

I found Rue, Seeder, Chaff, Danting, and Parion in the dining compartment. Rue wore a dress that was the same color as my outfit. Chaff wore a suit that seemed to flatter his slight gut, designed similarly to mine, and dyed red. Seeder's yellow dress flattered her long legs but gave her the dignity she deserved as an elder woman. Danting and Parion seemed dressed in order to blind and stun people with their creativity.

When the dining compartment doors opened, Danting led the way off the train. Seeder walked confidently behind him, followed by stiff, limping Chaff. Rue and I followed him, and Parion brought up the rear. She would have been invisible, if not for her outfit.

We strode proudly through an audience as colorful as a field of wildflowers. Everyone in the Capitol seemed to have an augment or two, sometimes three. There were men with skin striped like tigers and women whose ears looked like flower petals. I saw women with eyes as blue as the sky without any whites to their eyes, and men who looked like flowers with dark or blond petals where their hair was.

I waved nervously at the large crowd. Rue poured out her charm, waving happily at people, smiling, and taking in the sight of each modification. Back home, we rarely watched the arrival of the Tributes in the Capitol because it was the beginning of the Harvest. I had no idea what to expect. The crowds were enormous and applauded our presence. I saw no reason to applaud. Then again, if I lived in the Capitol and was well-fed daily, I would applaud too.

As we approached the Training Center near the center of the city, I was amazed by the facility. A tower loomed over a massive, domed structure, and the two buildings seemed connected to each other by several levels of lighted hallways. A fence of shimmering pink, blue, and yellow lights formed a perimeter around the center, close to the buildings' walls.

I had never seen the lights before, not even on TV. "What do those lights represent, the ones so close to the building?" I asked Seeder.

Chaff answered, "That is the barrier that keeps Tributes alive until the right time for them to die. You see, immediately after the Dark Days, more than a few Tributes chose to decide the outcome of the Games early. They'd throw themselves from the tower, especially the ones from poorer Districts, like ours. Eventually, the Capitol decided there was no fun in watching Tributes jump from a rooftop each year and commissioned a new Training Center with a protective shield."

"Death is death, one way or another," I muttered as we approached closer to the Training Center. I thought it was very cowardly that anyone would choose to die at their own hand than face the death selected for them.

"Think back to all the Games you've seen in your inconspicuous life. If that were true, Thresh, then why would the Gamesmasters always provide a spectacular ending? Or make sure that the Tributes survived just long enough?"

I noted that Chaff had lowered his voice. If I hadn't been directly behind him, I would not have heard the challenge in his voice. Before responding I lowered my voice as well. "Like the year the Games were set in the desert?"

His nod sufficed to answer my question. "Those disastrous Games were followed by the mandate that water had to always be available."

I remembered those Games as we made our way into the building. In that year, the Victor was a boy from District 3, the only one who didn't die. Panem had to watch the other 23 Tributes die one by one from dehydration, cold nights, and overwhelmingly hot days. No one died in a battle or at the Bloodbath. The boy from District 3 found a cactus he ate and drank from and a cave he slept in, and he survived his runner-up by only seconds before the Capitol came for him.

I glanced at my sister then. If we were trapped in a similar Arena, would I be willing to die so Rue could survive, like I had promised her? Or would I take my sister's life, if needed, to guarantee I lived?


End file.
